Shallow Graves
by Queen Mandala Jay
Summary: In the cut-throat, tumultuous nature of the crime syndicate a new player emerges. Among the rising new hopefuls a few others must be crushed. The Turtle's already volatile battle to keep the city safe rises in the wake of struggle among the leading scoundrels. *A Mondo Gecko story adapted to the 2K12 series*


**A/N: Lately I have been watching the new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle series. I enjoy it very much. I recently came upon an old episode of the show which originally hooked me when I was a wee little lass. It's quite embarrassing, knowing I enjoyed that version, considering how much the guys I remember have evolved. I grew with them and therefore find the campiness laughable, yet still there is nostalgia there. It was then that I remembered a character I was quite fond of and a story spilled into my head; A story to incorporate him into the new version of my favorite heroes. Within I will present that story. **

**Welcome Mondo Gecko (and other villains who will be adapted, as Mondo will be, to fit the 2k12 version).**

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**Shallow Graves  
**Chapter I

Fong's cool demeanor, this night, was merely a front to disguise the internal fear that wracked his lean frame. The inhale of his cigarette didn't even calm the nerves which normally would quell the emotional monkey on his back. His bicep twitched in anticipation.

He looked down at the purple dragon tattoo which wrapped around his arm, and for the first time in a long time he wished he was wearing a shirt under his vest. A shirt would hide any hint of discomfort he felt at meeting one of his team's primary benefactors.

Not long ago Fong had not been the one in a position to negotiate, but his superior had been killed during a heist gone wrong. A police shootout and the Purple Dragon goons which had followed Crazy Eight were killed with the leader they'd trusted. The rumor was, as his name implied, Crazy Eight had gone out cackling like a maniac. Fong always considered him a squirrelly misfit. Fong would never have followed that lunatic even if he took orders from him for three years leading up to this moment.

"Mr. X is never late."

Fong looked over at the suit who'd uttered the words and he merely scoffed. He leaned forward to blow smoke in the lean, well kept, black man's face. He then flicked his butt onto the ground and crushed it with his heel. "Well…it's 7:01…he's late," Fong's lip curled a little and then a slow smile crept across his face. There was a measure of false confidence which echoed in the practiced pride he presented.

The smirk vanished when he heard the door snap shut. Fong tried to turn with a lazy pace, but he couldn't hide the slight jerk his posture gave involuntarily at the sharp crack of the door. The suit laughed a single time. The condescending bark of laughter sent Fong's hackles back up and he scowled over his shoulder at the smirk on the suit's face, Mr. X's hired gun.

Three pin-stripped suit wearing thugs rolled in first, like some 1920's gangster flick. Fong felt his throat close a little. He'd sensed the same gut-burning bile rise in his throat just then as he had the first time he was tasked with assisting the man known as the Shredder.

"Where is he?" Fong found his voice. When he issued the question it came out with the right amount of force, the right amount of command, and the right amount of confidence.

"Ain't coming, Dragon. See, turns out, Mr. X is busy. Too busy for the likes of some street rat like you. Next time, take a bath before he's scheduled to meet with ya," one of the three said. His voice was thick with sarcasm.

Fong's nostrils flared. "You're wasting my time." he growled.

"Also wrong," this one, the only one in navy blue, had a voice like a hyena. "For you to work with Mr. X, you gotta prove yourself. Crazy Eight might'a been mad, but he was loyal. Turns out our continued business with the Dragons relies on you; and your ability to – shall we say – _impress_ him."

Fong's eyebrow arched. "And how am I to do this…?" The idea of the whole of the Purple Dragon organization and Mr. X's continued support weighting on him as a stand in supervisor didn't sit well with him.

"Heard about the city's pest problem? Some costume turtle freaks have had a hand in jeopardizing some big deals Mr. X has arranged with other business partners. Big deals," the third clarified his words with a gesture of his hands.

"Yeah…yeah I heard about that."

"Well he's got a ship coming in. It's your job to makes sure that ship makes port and all the goods, I mean **_all_ **the goods, make it on dry land without no…altercations." In spite of his animated speech, his voice was oily.

Fong fought off the urge to curl his lip, disgusted by the simple nature of such a request. "I think I can handle that." The turtles were the least of his worries, they didn't often care what he and his crew did so long as it didn't have anything to do with the weird alien robots. He was sure he could get this one off without a hitch, and maybe with only three or four Dragons.

"Good," the first said simply.

"Oh, and one more thing," the second paused as the others had already filed out. "Mr. X wants to be sure, so he'll be sending in a guy, one if his own, just to – ya know – make sure everything goes off without a hitch."

When the final man's back was him to Fong's lip finally curled. Out of habit he launched a mucus rocket onto the ground and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I don't need a baby sitter." He complained to the empty room, annoyed.


End file.
